


Keep Your Head High

by GoofyGoldenGirl



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Anger, Backstory, Character Study, Concerts, Defiance, Gen, Interviews, Mild Language, Piers is a good brother, Pokemon League, Songs, TV Show, TV interview, hostility, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoofyGoldenGirl/pseuds/GoofyGoldenGirl
Summary: The stage lights shone a garish light on Ferguson’s face. He gazed out at the audience, then back at Piers.“That isexactlythe type of answer I’d expect a dark type user to have, particularly one who comes fromSpikemuth.”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Keep Your Head High

“Please welcome one of our youngest challengers this year, fifteen year old _Piers Nezman_ from Spikemuth.”

Piers’ shuffling, unsteady gait came to halt at the edge of where backstage met the _League Spectacular_ set. The heat of the lights were _blinding._ The applause of the audience, deafening. He grimaced. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, washing away the cheap, powdery foundation that the makeup artists had agonizingly applied to his face an hour earlier. A pulsating red zit throbbed where the tip of his bangs brushed against his forehead. The hand he would have raised to adjust his hair stayed flat by his side. His posture straightened and he sent a blank look over at the audience, the camera crew stationed in the front row, then finally at _League Spectacular_ host Randy Ferguson opposite him. Beneath his welcoming, almost stretched smile and the twinkle of his eyes, flashed a hint of annoyance and impatience. He extended his hand out in a jerk like motion. 

If his sponsorship wasn’t on the line, or the fact that his little sister Marnie was watching him on the telly back home, Piers would have given him a dirty look and maybe a word or two to get him to back off. Feeling the chain of best behavior yank on him by the collar of the god-awful dress shirt the wardrobe department forced him to wear, he complied and walked forward. 

“Thank you! Thank you for coming!”

Mr. Ferguson took Piers’ hand in a limp grasp. He let go instantly and wiped his hand against the side of his trousers as if Piers’ hand had been covered with germs, dirt, or something equally disgusting. Naturally, it was out of the camera and audience’s sight.

They took their seats. Piers glanced down at the set floor then stiffly sat up. He watched how the pair of dress shoes on his feet kicked about, felt the looseness of the khakis flow out by his waist despite the buckle belt holding them up. He crossed his arms. His fingernails, normally adorned with black polish, were now bare. The frustration bubbled anew. The audience’s claps began to die down. 

_’Course. Dey don’ want someone like **me** prancin’ bout their league don’ ey? _

Mr. Ferguson looked down at his notes and set them aside on his desk to face Piers. 

“You’ve garnered _quite_ the attention these past three gyms.”

Piers tilted his head to the side.

“Yeah? So?”

“There aren’t many trainers who make it past Kabu’s gym, much less with a dark type team. How did you manage to do that?”

It was the _less_ and the _manage_ that jumped out at Piers the most. The muscles by the sides of his mouth and eyes tensed. 

“I have faith in my team and I fought hard, simple as that. Must show how good I am, eh- right?” Piers made sure to enunciate his words clearly and not fall back into Spikemuth’s slurred way of speech. 

Mr. Ferguson chuckled. The audience followed his lead. The sound circled about Piers’ head like the buzzing of a bug type pokemon that could not be swatted away. 

“Well, well, _young man,_ no one’s doubting your abilities as a trainer here. Look where you’re sitting right now!” He extended a hand out to the side.

And for a brief second, Piers was not on the set of _League Spectacular._ He was somewhere in the recent past, seated in an uncomfortable chair, directing a defiant gaze at the man who towered across from him. 

_Now listen here young man_ The voice of his former secondary school headmaster grated in his left ear. 

_I’m letting you off with a warning this time young man_ The voice of a cop screeched in his right. 

_As long as I am in ‘is house young man ya listen ta wha’ I say_ Boomed the voice of the sperm donor who called himself Piers’ father all around him.

“-what’s got everybody talking the most is how _unconventional_ your battling style is,” came Mr. Ferguson’s voice right in front of him. 

Piers slid forward in his seat.

“Unconventional you say?”

“You are rather fond of using brute force aren’t you? Your pokemon put up a _fight_ even when they’re winning. Clobbering and clobbering until the opponent’s backed in the corner and you dish out toxics and sand attacks until they collapse. Many have called it _unfair,_ _dirty_ even.”

Piers’ hand shot out to the side. The stage lights reflected off his knuckles as he gripped the arm of his chair. 

“It’d be unfair if we were in a battling tournament, and they’re be scoring and stuff like that but this ain’t some tournament where’d the judges would be looking at your form, this the _Pokemon League_ an’ last I checked no one _cares_ if ya fight fair, ya fighting to win,” Piers defended himself. 

Ferguson let out a sharp hum. 

“If you’d paid any attention to the commentators in the announcer box and the referees on the field, you’d see that they’d beg to differ. Particularly the referees. The call in the last match—“

“It was a stupid call,” Piers interrupted. “My linoone was **not** trying’ ta rip that centiskorch’s neck off! It was jus’ a **stun** ta get it ta stop wrigglin’ outta his grasp. ‘E didn’ even leave marks. The examiners prov’d it, but the ref jus’ threw it out the window ‘cause he favored Kabu.”

“Do you make that accusation that because you’ve never had to conform to _professional standards_ before?”

The anger inside Piers bubbled. Boiled. And rose with an impulsive hiss as he grit through his teeth:

“I think da ones upholdin’ da _professional standards_ should maybe try ta look at ev’rythin’ a little less objectiv’ly instead o’ **playin’ favorites** an’ **shit** like that.” 

A gasp rippled through the audience. Piers’ face paled with guilt as he thought to Marnie back home. He imagined her morpeko letting out a series of chatters that drowned out the tv, and Mum moving in to cover Marnie’s ears just in time. The best of scenarios since the show was being broadcast live. He didn’t want to dwell on worse outcomes. Marnie turning towards Mum to ask what that new, bad sounding word meant. Or that she knew the severity of the word he blurted out and was shocked. Disappointed. Maybe even heartbroken that the only older male figure she looked up to was capable of swearing. 

The stage lights shone a garish light on Ferguson’s face. He gazed out at the audience, then back at Piers.

“That is _exactly_ the type of answer I’d expect a dark type user to have, particularly one who comes from _Spikemuth._ ” 

The audience was fighting back the urge to laugh, Piers knew it. He imagined them rolling about in their seats, eye bulging, oversized hands clutching at their mouths at the hilarity of the idea. A league champion from a _dump_ like Spikemuth? That had lost their major source of revenue when the steel mines closed, and the waters in Circhester Bay permanently froze? A town trapped in a cycle of poverty that worsened the decades went on? Where promises of success were broken as the law abiding inhabitants worked themselves into death and depression and those who turned to crime ended up dead or imprisoned because of it? The same inhabitants who were mocked by the rest of Galar for _talking like cavemen,_ _being too rough and coarse for civilized society_ and _looking like the type of people who’d murder you?_

Spikemuth was a dump, but it was _Piers’_ dump. A place where bonds between neighbors ran deep and where everyone had each other’s back. From the mothers watching over the children that lived on the block as they played outside, shopkeepers who’d offer reduced prices, or even free food and goods to customers who couldn’t afford to pay the full price, young punks who stood up to the cops unfair tactics, folks taking in, healing, and adopting stray or abused pokemon who would otherwise have nowhere to go, to the whole community that came together to raise money, offer free repairs, mind the children, and cook meals for a family struck by tragedy. It made Piers proud to know that he came from a town that truly valued life’s worth. 

Then there were the little things. The thrill of sneaking out to an impromptu punk show in the park late at night. Belting his heart out on stage or losing himself in the music that the other bands played. Running down deserted streets with his best mates. Collapsing on the perfect spot on route nine to watch the sun peek its sleepy head up into the morning sky. Hearing the sound of Mum’s singing: low, warm, and comforting drift through the flat as she got ready for her day. Watching Marnie chase after morpeko in dizzying circles before tapping Piers’ arm with a mischievous grin. They were what made home, home and what Piers longed for the most miles away in a hostile, unfamiliar city. 

_Condescending bastard_ He bitterly thought. _Ya didn’t treat the o’her challengers in ‘eir interviews like this_

“There’s nothing special about that,” he said in an offhand tone. 

“Nothing special?” Ferguson threw Piers’ words back at him.

Piers crossed his arms once more. He sharply inhaled through his nostrils. The air stung, an oddly calming sensation.

“I ain’t the first ta enter. I can coun’ how many ‘ave come before me since I dunno going back 1980? Which is three by da way. Not a lot ain’t it? But certainly Randy-O since ya such a _gracious_ host and so _knowledgable_ ‘bout everything to do with the League, why don’ I spare ya the trouble so ya can tell me yourself?”

The audience’s laugh came like the rattling on a snare drum. Piers smirked. He caught a glimpse of a flustered Ferguson snatching for his notes. 

_Ha! Gotcha cornered_

Ferguson looked over the paper. He cleared this throat, much like a teacher or a headmaster would to quiet their rowdy students.

“Cheeky one aren’t you,” coldness threatened to freeze the forced politeness in his tone. “Moving on. I hear you’ve also got some talent off the battlefield.”

_Some talent?_

“Yes. I’m in a band. I’m a singer,” Piers curtly answered. 

The audience bubbled with excitement.

“Do you think you could sing something for us?” Ferguson asked.

Other challengers who had been graced with the talent segment of _League Spectacular_ were given notice way ahead of time before their scheduled interviews to prepare. Like that woman from last year who had gone to a culinary school in Kalos and baked a fancy dessert that Piers couldn’t even pronounce. The person in charging of booking did not ask Piers if he’d like to do a song, provide him with a backup band, or let him invite the boys from back home to join him. It was tempting to be insulted, yet the opportunity for keeping that sponsorship and getting a proper foot into the music world was ripe for the taking.

“Yeah, I’m down.” 

One of the set crew handed a guitar into his hands as he approached the microphone. He pulled the strap over his head and let the guitar hang as he adjusted the microphone. He was a better singer than a guitar player. He had the skill to mess around and come up with a few riffs here and there, but not the confidence to play on stage like his mates did. He thought for a quick second before deciding on a song that would be suitable for a family friendly audience. It was one that he had written both lyrics and music for. A constant work in progress that came in bits and fragments to him. A paradox that was too personal to reveal and yet not perfect enough to show off to the world. But Piers now found the confidence to be able to pull through and play it in its entirety in front of an audience for the first time. 

Piers fidgeted with the guitar pick as he clasped the microphone stand with his left hand. He gave a sharp breath. The microphone’s screech echoed. 

“This song,” Piers started. “I wrote for my sister Marnie. It’s called _Keep Your Head High._ ”

There was no drummer to kick off the beat, so Piers tapped his foot. His heart was pounding as he counted the _One two, one two_ underneath his breath. His hand struck against the strings, fingers sped through the chaotic wail of the flourish. Piers threw his head back as he transitioned into the riff. He swayed forward. Fingers slid down the guitar’s neck. The chords came, changed. He set his gaze straight out at the audience. His lips jutted out against the microphone. The voice that followed was throaty and warm: floating somewhere between a low tenor and a high baritone. 

You don’t think I’d notice  
The scrapes on your knees  
And the tears running down your face  
How can I when  
Everything’s  
Been knocked  
Down  
Crumbled to dust

_There Marnie stood in the kitchen with bloodied knees. Her school uniform was covered in mud and her hair had been mussed. There were tears in her book bag that lay on the table. Her voice wavered as she described how the neighborhood boys pelted rocks at morpeko, and that even though she fought, she was helpless to stop them. It was late at night. Mum sat at the table with the bills in front of her. Writing down a sum, checking it, and redoing the math before breaking down into tears. A sleepy Piers uncomfortably lingered before heading back to his room. The lights flickered and that man he used to call dad swayed with each step. He was screaming. Spittle flew everywhere as he struggled to keep his balance. Mum’s voice rose in a plead for him to stop. A very young Piers watched, paralyzed. From the bedroom, a baby Marnie announced that her nap was over with an ear splitting cry._

You think you can’t get outta this  
Luck’s tread through mud  
Shivering the sky fades  
to a darker gray  
You ask how can life be fair?  
Will everything ever be ok?  
That’s when I tell ya  
That’s when I say

A noise of some kind came from the audience. It faintly drifted by Piers’ ears. The steady pattern of the riff and Piers’ fluctuating voice united at last as one melody for the chorus: 

Come on keep your head high  
Marnie  
Keep trying and we’ll get by  
Marnie  
The world’s a little bit colder  
So let it fall down and rest on my shoulders  
You just gotta believe  
Marnie

One riff of instrumental. A collective _woo!_ filled the studio. Piers felt the corners of his mouth turn up just a bit. The air in his throat rustled about, eager to hit the air as song. 

_Marnie tugged Piers’ hand as she lead him down narrow and winding streets. The morpeko wiggled about in his hands with a squeak as he placed it into hers. Ice cream dripped all over her fingers and onto the park bench. He combed her hair, making sure to be gentle when he reached a knot or tangle. Marnie spelled out the word _important,_ her eyes alight with intense concentration. Morpeko and linoone tumbled about with happy yips. Piers hung up a drawing Marnie made right next to a poster of his favorite band. They were sliding down a snow covered hill on a cardboard box. Marnie clapped away to the song Piers and his mates were rehearsing. Piers peeked out through thick fingers and baby Marnie cooed. Not so long ago, the scraggy in the tall grass let out a growl. Marnie’s foot dug into the dirt and she looked back at Piers with a nod. She raised the pokeball high and threw it at a perfect angle._

I know it stings  
When they point their fingers  
And hiss through their teeth  
It sinks ya down more  
Than  
Sticks pounding  
Stones shattering  
Your bones 

_The neighborhood boys who’d hurt Marnie screamed as Piers darted after them. His face turned ruddy as he let the teacher who had it out for him personally have it. Two trainers’ eyes met. Piers vaulted over the window ledge and jumped down in the dead of night. A harsh sounding tune blared through the pub. Thick smoke that reeked of skuntank drifted from his lips. Mum grounded him again. The poke ball whizzed through the air. Sirens wailed and headlights shone upon the fresh tag on the brick wall that spelled out a vulgar phrase. The lump in his throat hardened as he stared out at the crowd for the first time. Somewhere in a back alley he ordered linoone to charge. His wrists were red and swollen from the handcuffs. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor did little to soothe his hangover. He shouted at the cashier who was short changing an older woman. The crowd bopped up and down to the words. Piers briskly picked up the dirty plates from table three. A stranger approached and said that he had incredible talent. He asked if Piers had ever done battling as a real gig before._

But you got something they ain’t got  
Your heart bleeds kind and true  
You don’t play their game  
You’re the queen of your own rules  
Stand up and wipe off the dust  
Throw off the cold and  
Let your light shine  
So bright it blinds  
So bright it BLINDS

Piers’ voice cracked from the force of the scream. The crowd roared. Feeling the numbness weaken his voice, Piers pushed his guitar against his belly so that he’d have some help getting more air down the hatch.

Come on keep your head high  
Marnie  
Keep fighting and we’ll get by  
Marnie  
The world’s a little bit colder  
So let it fall down and rest on my shoulders  
You just gotta believe  
Marnie

The sea of faces jiggled. Arms, phones waved about. Piers caught the turn of a spin, jumps, and even head banging from one member who definitely listened to rock music. Their voices rose into a chant in time to the guitar. _Marnie! Marnie!_ It fueled him, letting him seep into his element at last. With a stagger, he raised the guitar up and strung out a rough, sloppy solo. The pick snapped. Leg knocked against the microphone stand. He sprung up and shouted:

Ya just gotta  
Ya just gotta  
Ya just gotta believe  
Keep your head high  
Keep your head high  
Scream that they’ll never get you  
Tell them you dare them to  
You tell them you dare them to  
Tell them you dare them to  
Marnie

The guitar’s vibrations hung in the air. It fizzled as the audience erupted. Cheers, wolf whistles bombarded Piers from every direction. Cries of _More! More! Piers! Piers!_ sounded. Out of breath, Piers’ heart pounded as he looked out. A true smile broke through. They _loved_ him. His sponsorship was saved. He had a chance. 

“Thank you,” Piers flashed the audience a peace sign.

The feel of a grubby hand on Piers’ shoulder put a damper on his spirits.

“Ladies and gentleman, Piers Nezman!” Ferguson exclaimed. 

There was no escape. The weight of Ferguson’s hand was crushing. Irritation prickled, then stung as anger.

“When we come back, we have an all exclusive interview with top commentator—“

Just before the set director gave the cue to cut to commercial, Piers gazed straight into the camera. With a look of utter disdain, he turned the hand that held the peace sign around.

**Author's Note:**

> [Something to listen to before you go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCG98StBDfQ)


End file.
